Breaking the Rules
by KR Blake
Summary: Despite what people think, 16 year old delinquent Ally Dawson has issues. Not just behavioral issues. The kinds of issues she doesn't want anyone to know about. But when she is sent to the Students Helping Students program, and meets her Peer Lifestyle Adviser, Austin Moon, will that change? Or will she just fall farther into the darkness? Auslly. Rated T. Ally P.O.V.
1. Her Satanic Craft

**Disclaimer: No, I do not own Austin & Ally. I wish I did... **

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**Special thank you to Sarah (Dont-Stop-Believin) for:**

**A) approving this chapter;**

**B****) helping me develop the idea of the story;**

**C) coming up with the story's name. **

**Thank you, Sarah! **

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Prologue: Her Satanic Craft

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I wasn't always the way I am now—in fact, I was a good kid. If you asked anyone about me they'd say, "Ally Dawson? Yeah, I know her. Good kid. Mighty quiet, though. Not very forward with you. But all in all, a good kid."

Do you see the pattern there? Good kid. I was a good kid. Not only that—I was a _boring_ kid. No one wants to be the friend of a wet blanket. And was I a wet blanket? Yeah, you could say that.

So I changed. I stopped being Ally Dawson, the good kid. I started being Ally Like-Hell-You-Need-To-Know-My-Last-Name, the badass. The awesome one. The one you want to be. I stopped caring about things like consequences and rules. I only cared about what my next prank would be, and how fast it would get around school. The faster the better.

I was making a name for myself.

But you really don't care about my autobiography, do you? You're just here for the story. So fine. Ignore my ramblings, please turn off all electronics, sit tight, and enjoy the show. I know I won't.

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"Are you sure the coast is clear, Ally?" Trish whispered worriedly beside me, looking around, her eyebrows scrunched together tightly.

"_Yes_," I enunciated as clearly as I could, though making sure to keep my voice down. "Mr. Conley is out to lunch right now; Dallas is going to text me when he comes back into the parking lot."

"I hope you know what you're doing." She muttered, looking around the empty hallway.

"Oh, will you stop worrying." I chastised the short Latina standing beside me, peering into the dark classroom. She rolled her eyes.

"Whatever. Where did Dallas say the tests were again?" she glanced at the teacher's desk through the window in the door.

"In the top right drawer, under some useless papers." I answered, already pulling the bobby pin out of my sweeping chocolate hair. I didn't care if she chickened out or not—I could have done it myself, anyways. But she was nice company.

I fit the bobby pin into the lock on the door and twisted, jiggling my hand just so until I heard the lock click open. A mischievous smile graced my face as I pushed the door inward and stepped carefully into the dark classroom. I was suddenly so thankful I had worn my black converse today—there was no way in hell I could have snuck in this quietly in heels.

I neared the teacher's desk slowly, my hands becoming sweatier the closer I got to the large wooden desk. I could see paper and pencils scattered around the desktop—something that didn't surprise me. My history teacher was never the most organized of men. Another reason I wasn't scared of him coming back early from his lunch break and catch me trying to steal a copy of next week's test on The Battle of Roses; he was never on time.

I finally reached the wooden desk, my heart now hammering against my ribcage. I glanced back at Trish quickly for affirmation that we were still alone. She answered my unasked question with a nod, and I pulled the drawer open. I shuffled through the stack of pages in the desk until I found the blue folder underneath marked "**UNIT 4 TESTS**".

Jackpot.

I pulled the folder out of the desk, smiling wickedly, and slipped a copy out. I placed the folder back in the desk, shut the drawer, and turned to the door, triumphant.

At least, I would have been, had a certain history teacher not been standing behind me, arms crossed and sour expression pinching his usually soft and harmless features.

"Going somewhere, Miss Dawson?" he growled, and I gulped. I couldn't even say anything before his hand closed around my arm and I was being dragged out of the classroom, still clutching the stolen test.

-/-/-

"So, let me see if I have this straight," I said, baffled, to the principal and Mr. Conley. "I attempt to steal _one little test_ with the help of not _just_ Trish, but Dallas, as well, and _I'm_ the only one getting in trouble, here?"

"Well, in all fairness," Mr. Conley started, glancing at the principal nervously, as if he was afraid if he went too quickly or too harshly, I would snap and punch him in the throat. "Trish and Dallas don't have quite the…" he wheeled his hand in the air, groping for the right words, "history disobeying the rules as you do."

I narrowed my eyes. "So what?" I snapped viciously. "Just because I've been in this office the most times automatically means I'm the most at fault here? What the hell kind of twisted crap is that?"

Mr. Conley paled as I spat the curses (even though they weren't even the shortest in my arsenal, but I digress), but the principal just narrowed his eyes at me glaringly. "Miss Dawson." He said sharply through gritted teeth. I snapped my mouth shut.

"Please don't argue with Mr. Conley _again_, and please don't argue with my judgement. I know what I'm doing." The principal—Mr. Croft, a middle aged man with salt and pepper hair and a surprisingly youthful face—sounded worn to the bone as he spoke, rubbing his temples.

I raised a questioning eyebrow. "Are you sure about that?"

"Enough, Miss Dawson!" he snapped, slamming his fists against his desktop. "Do you want me to have to call your father?"

My blood ran cold and my face fell from its previous confidence. "No!" I said hurriedly, my eyes growing wide. "No, no, no! I'll—I'll shut up."

He smirked, leaning back in his upholstered spinny chair. "Good." I could hear the smugness in his voice—he thought he had me cornered. He thought he had won.

But oh, no, my friend. It was only beginning.

"Now." Mr. Croft had adopted a wicked-like drawl in his voice that made a chill run up my spine. "What to do with you this time." He ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair. "I suppose I could put you in detention, but you would only skip it and slash the tires on my car instead." I nodded. He wasn't wrong. "Then there's always suspension, but you've proven that even suspension can't keep you from doing harm to society." I wrinkled my nose at that. He made me out to be a virus or something. Like a blotch on humanity.

"I'll say one thing about you, Ally," Croft shook his head, pointing his stubby finger at me. "If there's one thing you know how to do, it's make everyone's lives harder. You just _don't quit_ until you've screwed everything up for everyone else, do you?"

I sank down in my chair in front of his desk, glaring. "Is this going somewhere, or are you just PMSing out loud?" I growled.

"And someone like you—someone so devoted to her satanic craft—deserves a… _special_ punishment." He said it carefully, but I could hear the cool detachment ebbing his voice. He didn't care. He just wanted me out of his hair.

He pulled a drawer out of his desk and filed around the papers for a minute before producing a glossy pamphlet and handing it to me over the table. I took it and read the title of the too-perky, bright blue cover aloud.

"'_The Students Helping Students Program_'," and underneath, the vague description, "'_Peer lifestyle rehabilitation service for troubled teens_'."

I nearly crumpled the damn pamphlet right there. "You're sending me to _rehab?!_" I nearly shrieked angrily. You had to have a problem to go to rehab. Like, a drinking problem, or a drug problem. I didn't have those problems. I didn't have _any_ problems.

"I—it's not so much a rehabilitation clinic as it is a… an after school program to help you manage your… _issues_." Mr. Conley said quickly, and I could see the nervousness in his face. He wrung his hands together like he always did when he was close to nervous sweats.

"Well, fan-frickin'-tastic, but _I_ don't have issues!" I insisted, pushing up from my seat, anger thrumming in the pit of my stomach.

"Oh, no, of course not." Croft muttered sarcastically, playing with a pen on his desk.

"_Shut up!_" I did shriek this time, throwing the pamphlet down on the ground. "I don't have issues, and I don't need some prissy suck up to babysit me after school every day! I'm sixteen! I can take care of myself!"

"Miss Dawson!" Croft shouted back, standing up from his spinny chair. "That is _enough!_ If you're sixteen, then start acting like it! Now it's either this or expulsion, so choose wisely, missy!"

My face paled.

Expulsion meant no school.

Expulsion meant meetings and conferences.

Expulsion meant parents would get involved.

Expulsion was out of the question.

"So the little troublemaker _does_ have a conscience." Croft drawled, an evil smile gracing his face. "I'll call into the program HQ and tell them you'll be attending. Report to the community center directly after school." he sat down calmly, intertwining his fingers together in front of his face. "Now get out of my office."

I shot both men sharp glares before standing from my seat and stalking to the door. As I reached for the doorknob, though, Croft's voice stopped me one last time.

"And, Ms. Dawson," he said. "If you skip this, I _will_ find out. I'm giving you a second chance here. _Don't_ screw it up."

That should have made me smile, I know, but it only fueled my anger. I yanked the door open and slammed it closed behind me as hard as I could. The secretary looked up, startled, but I didn't take any notice of her. I just stalked out of the office fervently, with no intention of attending my next classes.

I just wanted some peace and quiet.

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**So I know it's not much right now, but it's just a short prologue introducing the story. And in case you're wondering, yes it will be a bit more complicated and intricate than "_Ally just felt like becoming a bitch so people would notice her,_" but I can't tell you how. That would spoil the story. But what did you think? Good? Bad? **

**-KR Blake Ω **


	2. Rules and Introductions

Chapter one: Rules and Introductions

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"_They sent you to REHAB?!"_ Trish's shrill voice rang through my phone as I crossed the street into the South Miami Community Centre. I held the phone away from my ear as she let out a stream of curses in Spanish.

"Ugh, I know, right?" I groaned into the phone, looking both ways before darting through the busy stream of cars in the parking lot.

"_Can they even do that to a minor?"_ She questioned. I hate questions.

"Apparently." I mumbled, instantly shutting the subject down. It was something I knew all too well. Never let anyone in. That's how it was always done.

"_Si alguna vez tengo en mis manos esos pequeños hijos de puta perra les voy a dar una palmada en la caja de la voz con tanta fuerza a sus nietos crecer sonando como Justin Beiber."_ She muttered in an evil voice. I didn't catch much of what she said besides something about sons of bitches and slapping in the throat. I don't know; Trish had a habit of speaking too quickly when she switched to Latina Mode.

"Well, as much as I appreciate the sentiment, I don't think that'll help." I said in a monotone. I looked up at the large building in front of me, sighing into the phone. "Look, I gotta go. Call you after the prison session, 'kay?"

She muttered something suspiciously devilish into the phone in Spanish and hung up the phone. I clicked off my Android and slipped it into my jeans pocket dejectedly, walking up the cement steps to the community centre—or as I'd know it as for the next few months, a shallow Hell.

It wasn't all that bad of a community centre; the city had recently completely redone it, so at least it had a state of the art, Olympic sized swimming pool in the back. I made a mental note as I walked solemnly past the information desk to take a swim in it one day. Then I shuddered. I would be spending as little time as I could here. I would just go in, get the much uncalled for therapy for an hour and a half every day, and go home. That was it.

I promised myself.

-/-/-

I strode confidently into the front foyer of the community centre, an airy expression taking over my face as every one of my walls went up in defense. I walked towards the front desk and the two people that stood in front of it, waiting for me, like I had been instructed by Mr. Conley during fifth period. He had slipped me a little piece of paper with all the information I'd need to "_make a full and happy journey through the program_".

I swear, the entire foundation of this program was complete shit.

Once I had reached the front desk, I tried my best to fake a smile. And—whether thankfully or unthankfully—faking things had always been a talent of mine.

"I'm Ally." I said in as polite a voice as I could manage to the two people. "Ally Dawson." Both of their eyes snapped towards me at once in the exact same way, making me suddenly feel tiny and in the spotlight. I pushed that back and composed myself.

The first person was a stout, middle-aged woman, maybe only five feet tall, with fiery red hair and hawk like eyes that seemed to catch everything in the room.

The second was a boy, about my age, but a good six inches taller than my less-than-impressive five foot five. He seemed a little less hostile, with a soft face and flopping blonde hair that curled around his ears and the nape of his neck. His soft brown eyes surveyed me interestingly from head to toe, until they finally met mine, and he smiled warmly. He was obviously attractive, but I knew by the orange key ring that read _Students Helping Students!_ and the serious glint in his eyes that he was off limits.

"Welcome, dear!" the stout woman beamed brightly, snapping my attention back to her. I couldn't help but feel the corner of my mouth twitch downward in a miniscule frown. "I'm Suzanne, the director and chairman of this wonderful organization!"

I watched the woman—Suzanne—smile brightly to me for a second more before I turned my eyes back to the boy again. He seemed oddly familiar, though. Did I go to summer camp with him once…?

"Who're you?" I asked, nodding to him.

"I'm Austin." He said, still smiling. "Austin Moon. I'm your Peer Lifestyle Advisor."

I sighed. "Of course you are."

"I'm… sorry?" He asked slowly, his yellow eyebrows knitting together in confusion. I just rolled my eyes.

"Never mind." I said tiredly, and then turned to Suzanne. "Are we going to be done here soon? I sort of have to get home for dinner."

"Of course, of course." Suzanne nodded. "We just need you to sign some papers, and you'll be all set up to start your first session with Austin tomorrow."

"Sounds like a plan." I nodded. Just under my breath, added in a murmur, too low for Suzanne to hear, but I'm fairly sure my babysitter Austin had heard, "not one I'll enjoy but it's a plan."

The middle aged woman beamed and turned, scurrying away towards the office at the end of the main foyer to retrieve the papers she had talked about.

The room lapsed in silence, as Austin and I seemed to be the only ones in the entire building. I couldn't even hear the faint scuff of sneakers from the gym, where the girls basketball team should have been practicing tonight.

It was just an eerie silence.

Leaning back against the front counter, I took to looking all around the foyer. It was neat—too neat for me. The chairs were set up exactly 45 degrees from each other around a rounded coffee table with a few magazines fanned out on its polished surface, making it look like something out of an Ikea catalogue. The paintings on the wall all hung perfectly straight, and all followed the same general theme of the English countryside, it seemed. Even the mat in front of the doors wasn't skewed or dirtied.

It was just neatness. Complete and irritating neatness.

Finally, my eyes landed on a large white sign beside the stainless steel elevator doors leading down to the basement.

"What are those?" I asked Austin, breaking the tense silence, jerking my head towards the sign.

"Those are the rules for this program." He told me, reading the large, red-coloured words.

"There are actual rules to this thing?" I almost snorted in disbelief. You've _got_ to be kidding me, right?

"Well, there are just five, but yeah." He nodded, acting as if it was totally normal. "'_Don't skip a session; don't me rude; no use of any illegal substances whatsoever; never take it out on yourself._'" He seemed to recite from memory.

"And what's the fifth one?" I asked.

He looked back to me, a smirk playing across his face. "'_Don't fall for your Peer Lifestyle Advisor_.'" He finished in an amused voice.

I shot him a sharp glare at that playful smirk of his, but didn't say anything. The room fell into an awkward silence, in which I continued to look around the meticulously cleaned room until Suzanne came scurrying back, carrying a beige folder with my name on it in big black letters.

She handed me the folder and I flipped through it quickly. It looked like they had my entire life printed out on these few pages: old report cards, medical and dental records—even the X-rays I got when I broke my wrist learning to ride a bike when I was 7.

I flipped to the last few pages and signed the release forms, saying if I didn't "_get better psychologically or emotionally_", I couldn't sue the program.

"Fabulous!" Suzanne chirped in that seemingly always sunny voice of hers, taking the folder back. "So tomorrow, just meet Austin after school at his house four your first session together, and you'll be on the road to blowing this Popsicle stand, as the kids say!" she chuckled, and I groaned audibly.

"Great." I agreed, annoyance ebbing my voice accidentally.

"See you tomorrow, Austin." I said as I walked away, throwing a lazy wave over I shoulder to him.

Sadly, I knew I had no choice in this.

-/-/-

I shoved my key into the lock and twisted, throwing my weight and frustration into moving the ancient locks. The locks gave way and let me into the large house. I'd have to fix that, I noted as I shut the door behind me and threw my key onto the small table in the front hall.

Kicking off my shoes, I walked into the silent house, feeling the usual and familiar hollowness return to my chest. I didn't bother to try to contain my noise as I switched on the stereo, blasting a rock song loudly through the house.

I knew this house was empty, and it always would be, with only the ghost of a dead girl lurking inside.

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**I know it's only small and there was little to know Austin/Ally interaction here, but next chapter it will pick up, I promise. I've also decided that there will be the occasional scene in this story told from Austin's POV. They won't be frequent, because it's easier for me to write from Ally's perspective instead of Austins, but I will have to write the occasional scene/chapter in his POV. **

**-KR Blake Ω**


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